“I am not yet dead, sir! Should I recover (as I have every hope of doing), present the compliments of the Count de Charney to his trio of doctors, and tell them I dispense with their further visits, and the blunders of a science as idle and deceptions as all the rest. I overheard enough of their consultations to know that I am indebted to chance alone for my recovery.” “_Chance!_” faltered the priest—“chance!”—And, having raised his eyes to Heaven in token of compassion, they fell upon the fatal inscription on the wall— “CHANCE, THOUGH BLIND, IS THE SOLE AUTHOR OF THE CREATION.” The chaplain paused, after perusing this frightful sentiment; then, having gathered breath by a deep and painful inspiration, he added, in a solemn voice, the last word inscribed by Charney— “_Perhaps!_” And ere the startled Count could address him, he had quitted the apartment. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. Elated by success, Ludovico lent his ear, in a sort of idiotic ecstasy, to every syllable uttered by the Count. Not that he comprehended their meaning:—_There_, luckily, he was safe. But his dead man was alive again; had resumed his power of speaking, thinking, acting—a sufficient motive of exultation and emotion to the delighted jailer. “_Viva!_” cried he; “_viva, evviva_. He is saved. All’s well! _Che maraviglia!_ Saved!—and thanks to whom?—_to what?_” And, waving in the air his earthen vessel, he proceeded to hug and embrace it, saluting it with the tenderest diminutives of the Tuscan vocabulary. “Thanks to what?” echoed the sick man. “Why, to your friendly care, my good Ludovico. Nevertheless, should my cure be perfected, you will find those doctors yonder claiming all honour for their prescriptions; and the priest for his prayers.” “Neither they nor I have any title to the victory,” cried Ludovico, with still wilder gesticulation. “As to the _Signore Capellano_, _his_ handiwork may have done something: ’tis hard to say. But as to the other—ay, ay—as to the other bringer of salvation—” “To whom do you allude?” interrupted Charney, expecting that the superstitious Ludovico would attribute his recovery to the interposition of some favourite saint. “_Who_ has deigned to become my protector?” “Say _protectress_, and you will be nearer the mark,” cried Ludovico. “The Madonna—eh?” demanded Charney, with an ironical smile. “Neither saint nor Madonna!” replied the jailer, stoutly. “She who has preserved you from the jaws of death and the claws of Satan (for dying without confession you were damned as well as dead), is no other than my pretty little god-daughter.” “Your god-daughter!” said the Count, lending a more attentive ear to his rhapsodies.